The Manor and the Music Box
by pjstillnoon
Summary: Mulder finds another haunted mansion to explore, but an ethereal experience has him contemplating his life and love, or lack thereof.


AN: Happy Birthday Meise

**PJ**

The Manor is cold and smells of long undisturbed dust. The place has a reputation for ghost stories but Mulder doesn't have permission from anyone to be there. Mournful figures in the window, strange noises in the night, mysterious happenings and a spooked town, that kind of thing. Those games where kids dare each other to stay in the house overnight, but no one has ever made it, not even rational adults. Beside him, Scully shivers in her coat and he can hear the taste of her complaint before she voices it. "Through here," he quells it, guiding the way with his powerful flashlight, marking out a doorway to the right. He kind of knows where he's going, but he is also following his nose. He hasn't memorised a floor plan, but has vague ideas from the stories he's gathered.

Scully's heels make the clop, clop sound over the hardwood floors as they walk; juxtaposing against the firmer, longer and steady slap, slap of his business shoes. They cross from the foyer into a larger reception-type room and then into the enormous ballroom. The place has been abandoned longer than Mulder's been alive, despite many attempts by inheritors to try and claim it back, and even though he knows the family's history, it doesn't bear repeating again. It didn't do much to persuade Scully into coming with him; at this point, she does it simply because he asks. She's not convinced, but Mulder thinks she might still be open to be, even if it would take a lot for the scientist.

They walk into the centre of the large space and Scully's twin flashlight beam pirouettes around the room, dancing in and away from his. They canvas from their position in the middle of the floor, Scully turning on the heel of her pumps, and find nothing but draped chandeliers and silhouettes of furniture and a lot of dusty paintings. They're going to tear this place down. The land has been sold for a mall. Mulder notices Scully check the dust on the floor too, just to prove that no one else has walked through here in a long time; corporeal or ethereal and he suppresses the need to chuckle. Instead, he puts out his light and deposits it in his pocket. Then he dons the headgear he carried in. He gives a spare set to Scully but she holds the goggles at her side, her cynicism heavy in the air. Sure, it seems a bit of a stretch, but even if it turns out to be a bust, playing with heat sensing gear will be fun.

Mulder holds up his hand to block out the sharp white sting of Scully's flashlight and she takes a hint and puts it out. Mulder can see nothing around him in dark purple until his gaze lands upon Scully. She stands opposite him, a figure of bright oranges and reds and whites that reminds him of a supernova and a hand on her hip that prompts him to remind her that he can see her. "Whoa Scully you're hot!"

She puts her own headgear on. "What exactly are we looking for?" She asks, a familiar routine. And Mulder's response 'anything out of the ordinary', his standard instruction. At least she doesn't ask him if this is even remotely FBI related. They look around the room, this time with the dark purple of cold air obscuring the way. "I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold," Scully says.

Mulder isn't hoping to see a ghost through the goggles. Because ghosts are cold. No body, no heat. But, "There are reports of furniture and other objects being moved in the house Scully. It takes energy to do that, ethereal or not. So by that theory, if something has been moved recently, disturbed, then it should have a heat signature."

It sounds logical, but he knows it's still a bit of a leap. The chances of finding the miniscule heat patterns left behind from anyone or anything moving anything in this dusty and cold house are going to be slim. But borrowing the headgear from a buddy came at a good time and he was curious to check this place out. It doesn't give him a vibe of creepiness like some places have. No one was murdered here or anything interesting. It's just a big old house with a great story…

Something by Scully's feet glows. Independently of her. "You see this Scully?" Mulder breathes.

Scully obviously follows his gaze. "My shoes?" Her tone is deliciously amused.

"No," Mulder responds as he kneels down next to her. Behind her heel is a small box of some sort. It's dark, purple like the rest of the coldness around them, but he can see the outline of it. There must be an opening in the box, because licking up slowly from under the edge of the lid are orange flames, which is what caught Mulder's eye. He feels Scully moving beside him, coming to crouch next to him, her arm resting against his.

"What is it?" She asks. He's dying to know if she can see what he can see but he won't ask again. He doesn't know what it is, but it's fascinating to watch and he's afraid to touch. The orange, what Mulder would consider to be a heat signature of some sort, moves like coloured smoke, almost liquid in the way it drifts up from under the lid of the box, going nowhere, just disappearing.

"Mulder," Scully's voice comes again and she stands. He can hear an anxiety of sorts in her tone; awe mixed with fear; something she can't make sense of right now and so she's asking him to. To explain it to her in a way she can understand, and later find her own rational justification for if it turns out she doesn't like his.

Mulder stands with her, his mind racing for answers. He's never seen anything like it before, but it does seem to warrant the heat signature gear he's borrowed; he's on the verge of pointing that out to his partner. But when he stands and looks over at her his heart starts a jagged beating for a different reason. Standing next to Scully is another woman. But again, Mulder can only make out a faint outline of the figure, purple against the pitch black of the room, almost like a whisper. She's wearing a full dress and her hair is half down around her shoulders, curled, styled. He's not sure he's seen anything for a few seconds and Scully is waiting for his expert guidance on what's happening and his mouth has gone dry. "Do you see her?" He almost whispers.

"Who?" Scully says. The woman standing next to her turns her head towards Scully and reaches out to touch her arm.

It's not like falling through a vortex. And it's not like falling off a cliff. But there is a sensation of dropping, like Mulder has been brought to his knees, except he hasn't, he's still upright. As far as he can tell he's still standing exactly where he was a moment before except now in front of him the ballroom is alight with chandeliers and candles and a fire roaring in the massive hearth at the far end of the hall. Around him are people, couples, dressed in the style of the late 1800's and this fits with the stories he's heard about the manor. He's not aware of his body much as he becomes an observer. Against one wall is a banquet, tiered cake stands and a centre piece of fruit and foliage. On the opposite side, on a raised platform, a string quartet plays in full dress with tails. The room is decorated for Christmas; wreathes, red bows, holly, gold, a massive fir tree in the corner and boxed presents beneath it. People are dancing, rushing around Mulder like he isn't there and he isn't. They don't touch him, don't pass through him; always manage to keep just enough difference, a choreographed coincidence.

Mulder's attention is drawn to a woman making her way across the dance floor. She walks with purpose and he knows without a doubt that this is the woman who was standing next to Scully before. He has a feel he knows her, that she's familiar in some way he can't place, and knows he should be watching her on an intuition he can't rationalise. He wishes for a half second to be closer and he is, standing now by the end of the banquet table. In a cumbersome wheelchair another young woman sits. She's so obviously sick.

Mulder starts to understand things about the scene in front of him. The sick woman is the daughter of the man who owns the house. This is their New Years party and she's not allowed to dance. He forbids it. She's sick. She's dying. And he's over bearing and over protective. She couldn't do much now anyway, but he says she's not allowed out of the chair; she's on thin ice being downstairs in the first place.

She used to be a dancer, formal ballet, and it pains her to watch everyone else enjoying themselves when she cannot. She knows this will be her last party. No one's talking about it, but she knows. And the woman approaching, wearing the dowdy brown gown, with her dark brown hair in the current style anyway, has been nursing the sick woman. She's just had an argument with the father of the manor. She's not going to let the sick woman sit all night and just watch. She knows this will be the last party too. For both of them.

The nurse approaches the young woman, takes her hand and tosses away the blanket that has been covering her knees. The sick woman is wearing a simple white nightgown and she's painfully frail in it. Mulder watches on as the nurse takes the woman up in her arms, cradling her like a child and walks to the dance floor. She starts a gentle swaying back and forth and a smile blooms across the pale lips of the woman who is dying. There's no protest but people are watching and the enthusiasm of their own dancing dampens down a little, almost seems respectful. Her father is too busy talking business in the billiards room to know what is going on. But no one goes to tell him.

And then at her shoulder, a tall, tanned young man, obviously not one of them in his white shirt and dark trousers; no expensive tails for him. He cuts in and the woman who has been nursing the woman who is dying gladly relinquishes the childishly small body to his arms. He tucks one arm under her legs and lifts her so she's draped over his arms, so she's cradled tightly against his chest. He's stronger and fitter and spins easily around the dance floor, letting the woman in his arms fly. The smile on her face blooms into pure joy and Mulder feels a pain in his chest watching them. They're in love with each other, adoration in their eyes and he can feel it, feels all of it, the dizziness of being spun and danced around the room and the aching of knowing there is more to come.

The quartet change the song. They start Auld Lang Syne and the crowd joins in with the words, raising to a steady swell that envelops Mulder like a comfort blanket. He drifts for a second away from the couple, finds the nurse standing off to the side, melting back into the background where it was reminded is her 'place' just a few moments ago, before she started all of this. Mulder goes back to the couple, the young man with his jet black hair and open white shirt standing almost in the centre of the room. The woman in his arms has her eyes closed and there's a faint smile on her lips. It takes Mulder a second to realise the man is crying, that there are tears falling, dripping down on his lover, and Mulder feels the well of grief opening up inside him. He knows the woman is gone and he knows the man cries with relief and joy, not with the agony of her being gone.

Mulder blinks and it all disappears. He's back in the darkened ball room, _for auld lang syne_ echoing in his ears and the chill of the abandoned manor all around him. He can hear his breath in his ears, taste the dust in his nose and across from him, just a foot away, stands Scully, bright through his heat seeking goggles, as his eyes focus again on the present. He takes the device off and sees no better. There's no woman standing beside his partner anymore.

Scully repeats his gesture, finds her voice first, "Mulder did you just see?"

He knows she struggles with it, will have a hard time trying to rationalise away what just happened. He didn't see her there, in the vision, or experience, or flashback, but now he knows she saw it all too. He tries to think of a way to reassure her, but he's still overwhelmed by what happened. Not the travelling to another time, or whatever it is that's happened, but the emotion of watching that young woman die, blissfully happy.

"It must have been a memory," he surmises. That feels about right.

"Who's memory?" Scully demands. "Can we get out of here? I'm freezing."

Mulder takes out his flashlight and turns it on. He takes Scully's goggles and agrees they can go. It just doesn't feel right to nose around in there anymore. He walks with Scully as she takes the lead in heading for the door. He wonders if she saw exactly what he did and he wonders if she felt exactly what he did. The thing is though, he's afraid to ask, because she so often debunks him, takes his theories apart and when that doesn't work, she stubbornly refuses to believe.

He wants to believe.

He wants Scully to believe.

In him.

In them.

Like the couple on the dance floor a hundred years ago.


End file.
